


Gray and Gold

by darkandstormyslash



Series: Gray and Gold [1]
Category: Peaky Blinders (TV)
Genre: A vague flavour of one-sided Michael/Tommy yearnings, Aftermath of Shooting, First Time, Hand Jobs, M/M, Minor amounts of period-typical sexism, first time gay, michael has a lot in his head and most of it is mildly unpleasant, michael/charlotte alluded to, minor reference to Father Hughes, references to death, references to violence, vague thoughts of violence and harm
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-01-12
Updated: 2018-01-12
Packaged: 2019-03-03 21:33:48
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,731
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13349955
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/darkandstormyslash/pseuds/darkandstormyslash
Summary: What exactly did Michael get up to while staying in Aberama Gold's encampment in 4.6?A story of two young men having a night-time fumble in a travelling encampment. References and possible spoilers for everything that goes on in seasons 1–4.





	Gray and Gold

The worst part, Michael thinks, is knowing he’s fucked up.

It might be bearable living here; in a small, miserable encampment surrounded by men who don’t like him and make no secret of it, if it was a step to something greater. It might feel honourable, even exciting, to catch a brief glimpse of the life Tommy Shelby’s family used to live. But he’s here in disgrace – he had a chance to tell Tommy that Luca Changretta would kill him and he missed that chance, and Tommy knew _all along_.

He sits on the muddy earth and watches the fire. The men around him laugh at him behind their hands and Michael sneers at them in front of their faces. This place is a shithole. No wonder Tommy tries every day, with everything he has, to take himself further from it.

Bonnie Gold crouches down beside him and gives him a big guiltless smile. “You alright there?”

Michael gives a barely imperceptible nod.

 “You won’t be coming to my fight?”

Michael takes a breath to answer, and then decides against it. Bonnie seems a decent enough lad and probably doesn’t deserve a face-full of Michael’s repressed shame and anger. Instead he just gives a small shake of the head.

Bonnie nods, the boy always seems to be moving, even now he’s practically vibrating on the spot. “First proper fight, I can’t wait. I’ve been waiting for this, waiting for it my whole life, you know?”

Michael knows. He knows mostly because this is not the first time Bonnie has had this same conversation with him. He wonders what Bonnie would do if Michael pulled a gun, right now, and held it up to his face. There’s a gun under his jacket, and Michael lets Bonnie’s words wash over him while he imagines taking it out, cocking it back and sliding the barrel of it right into Bonnie’s mouth.

“It’s how I’m going to get out, you know, get away from all this. I’m going to be a champion welterweight boxer, Mister Shelby said. I don’t want to stay here doing nothing for the rest of my life.”

Michael nods. A stick of dynamite, he thinks, under the main wagon. Blow it into matchsticks. He knows how Bonnie feels, of course he does, it’s the way he feels every time he looks at Tommy Shelby. Except Michael’s just put a bullet into his exciting new future, shot it straight through the head like a lame horse.

“Have you got a big house, Mister Gray?” Bonnie asks, and Michael clenches his jaw and forces himself to speak.

“I did.”

Bonnie’s eyes are dark, “I’m going to get a bigger one.”

“You rig enough matches for him.” Michael can feel his fingers twitching, he badly needs a cigarette. “And Tommy Shelby will probably buy you a big fucking house himself.”

Bonnie nods slowly, and Michael can see he’s taken the statement completely at face value. “I will. I’ll do that.”

“Tommy _fucking_ Shelby.” It’s not Tommy he’s angry at, it’s himself. He’s not afraid of Tommy’s anger, or Tommy’s revenge, what makes Michael Gray’s stomach churn is the fear that Tommy Shelby will no longer take him seriously. That the next time he sees Tommy Shelby the man will look up at him with amusement in those washed-blue eyes, a cigarette dangling off the corner of his lip, and give a snort of laughter.

 _Was that your plan?_ The Tommy Shelby in his head berates him, _Shoot Tommy out the end of Luca Changretta’s gun and run away to Australia? That was the height of your ambition? Even with four bullets in you, boy, you can do better than that. I did._

One of the men calls to Bonnie and he gives Michael a lightning-fast grin and scoots off. Michael tugs at the blanket draped over his shoulders. It’s hand-stitched, in bright repeating squares, and fraying at the edges.

Scowling, he pushes it off his body and sits shivering in the cold evening.

* * *

By night-time his pride has gone, beaten down by a cold more fierce than Chester Campbell’s fists. He lies on his bunk in the wagon fully clothed, with the colourful blanket wrapped around him and his coat on top of that, neither of them enough to warm him. He can feel the cold wood of the bunk below pressing into his body, which aches from where the Doctors stitched him back together like a rag-doll.

It’ll always hurt, the Doctor said, always hurt somewhere. That’s what happens when a bullet goes through your body, you can never make the hurt entirely stop.

The back of the wagon creaks open and Bonnie slips inside. He clearly thinks that Michael is asleep and is trying, unsuccessfully, to be quiet. Michael watches him opening drawers and knocking into things for a while and finally speaks, “What is it?”

He isn’t quite prepared for how rough his voice is, and all that comes out is a strangled croak. Bonnie whips around with a look of alarm, scooting over and petting ineffectually at his shoulder. “Are you alright, do you need something? Water?”

What Michael needs is to go back a week in time, and shout out a warning to Tommy Shelby before he leaves the hospital. He needs to lose the cowardice he knows still lurks in him, the chip that still weighs on his shoulder because he’s not a _proper_ Shelby. Most of all, he needs Tommy Shelby to walk right into the wagon, put a hand on his arm, and murmur _I understand. She’s your mother, I understand_.

Instead he has Bonnie Gold mauling his shoulder and a deep throbbing pain in the hole the bullet made. “I need my medicine.”

“I know a better way, if it hurts.”

Michael snaps, as far as he’s able to snap in his current state, “Get me the pills.”

Bonnie fetches the bottle and a flask of brackish water, and Michael chokes the pills down. Bonnie frowns a little and asks, “Are you really part-gypsy?”

“Apparently so.” The water has helped more than he’s willing to admit.

“You don’t look it.”

“Shut up, Bonnie.”

The words clearly aren’t said in the right way, because Bonnie gives a smile, and turns to leave. Michael reaches out and grabs at his fingers before he can go. “Wait. I’m cold.”

There’s another blanket stored in a cupboard below the bunk, made of some kind of fur. Michael doesn’t even want to guess which animal, he just wants to be warm. Bonnie tugs it out and then, to Michael’s alarm, pulls himself up onto the bunk and throws it over both of them.

“What are you doing?”

“Your feet are like ice. Tommy Shelby’ll be less than pleased if they fall off.”

“He’ll probably buy you an even bigger house. Get _off_.”

He can push, but at the end of the day he’s a badly injured accountant and Bonnie is a trained welterweight boxer. Bonnie’s body is warm, he’s like a human furnace, and Michael finds that the bunk is a lot more pleasant with another warm body in it.

His feet _are_ cold. He hadn’t realised quite how much.

Bonnie’s arm wraps over the top of the colourful blanket and Michael closes his eyes, feeling his breath slow down as he relaxes. Bonnie’s head rests against the scratchy lace pillow and he gives Michael a grin, “Better?”

“Yeah.”

They lie in silence for a while, and for the first time since he entered the damn camp, Michael actually feels comfortable. The colourful blanket is still ridiculously tacky, the fur one still ragged, the smell still ever-present, but it feels strangely safe and secure with Bonnie Gold’s arm wrapped over his shoulders, and Bonnie Gold’s gloriously heat-radiating body close to his.

“I can understand.” Michael whispers eventually, as a peace offering, “Why you don’t want to live here. I used to live in a village. It was like being trapped under a rock. It felt like the whole world was going on outside and everyone around me was walking about blind.”

He can feel Bonnie’s head nodding against his. “It’s still fighting for money, that’s what Dad understands. He’s fought and killed for money all his life, but he still lives here and does sod all.”

“Get a big house.” Michael feels himself smiling, “Get the biggest house, Bonnie Gold, fill it with your boxing trophies.”

“Yeah?” Bonnie sounds excited at the prospect, and so Michael keeps on elaborating.

“Tommy’ll get you a mansion, out in the country, but you’ll spend most of your life travelling all over for the fights. Except instead of travelling by horse and cart to a gypsy fair, you’ll travel by train and car. You’ll have your own cars, a dozen of them, and they’ll take you to big fancy rings and big posh hotels.”

“Will you come and watch?” Bonnie asks eagerly.

“’Course I will. I’ll be with Tommy Shelby won’t I?” Michael has to swallow down the feeling of raging guilt, but swallow it down he can, and keeps talking, “I’ll be one of the part-owners of Shelby Company Limited. I’ll tell you which fights to win, and which to throw; when to take it, and when to hold out till the last round.”

“You’ll get me fights?”

“Yeah.”

“With the best fighters. I can take them all, I swear I can.”

There are two conversations going on now, Michael thinks, and only one of them is about boxing. The other one is about the eager and wistful tone in Bonnie’s voice, the press of Bonnie’s legs against his own, the feel of Bonnie’s breath against his face and the tightening of Bonnie’s fist against the blanket on his back. “The biggest and best, Bonnie Gold, I’ll find the dirtiest, biggest bastards and make you take on all of them.”

He can see Bonnie’s eyes, dark and wide, and for some reason, Michael can’t for the life of him think why on earth it’s relevant, he finds himself asking, “You ever slept with a woman?”

Bonnie shakes his head slowly.

“I have.”

Bonnie should be ashamed, Michael thinks, of being a virgin, but Bonnie doesn’t seem ashamed. Bonnie doesn’t look like he’s ever felt ashamed in his life. “What’s it like?” He asks curiously.

Michael hesitates wondering whether to lie and eventually settles for the truth. “Better with cocaine.”

His feet are warming up now, thanks in no small part to the bare end of Bonnie’s legs between the top of his trousers and his boots. Michael’s feet prod at the boots and slowly, Bonnie kicks them off his feet and lets them clatter down to the floor. “I’ve never had cocaine.”

Michael toes at Bonnie’s socks and waits until Bonnie’s kicked them off as well before answering. “I need it really. To keep awake. To stop thinking about that bloody rope.”

“Do you need it to be with a woman?” Michael looks up sharply to see if Bonnie’s taking the piss, but it appears to be a genuine question and so Michael gives a genuine answer.

“I took it every time I was with her.”

“Oh.”

There’s more silence, as Bonnie’s feet wind their way around Michael’s. He can hear Bonnie’s heart hammering in his chest, like a frightened animal. Michael doesn’t feel frightened. He feels suddenly powerful, even though he’s alone in a strange camp with a strange boy in his bed and a gun hanging over his head. The last time he felt this way was when he pointed a gun at John Shelby’s head.

His cock is hard against his trousers. He looks into Bonnie’s eyes as Bonnie’s hips awkwardly find it and jerk into it. He waits for Bonnie to comment. Bonnie says nothing.

“She kept calling me.” Michael says, as his cock presses into Bonnie’s hip. “She never left me alone. Then she got pregnant. It was good, but I’m not sure it was worth all that.”

“Th-they take the energy…” Bonnie’s voice is hitching. Michael knows without even looking that Bonnie will be hard too, and now he feels the way he felt when he pointed the gun at Arthur Shelby. “They don’t let Boxers, the night before, t-takes the energy away, that’s why I’ve never…”

“You mustn’t tell anyone about this.” Michael whispers with a thrill in his voice. He raises a hand and places it over Bonnie Gold’s chest, right in the spot where he stabbed Father Hughes. “Don’t tell a soul. Or your father. If you tell your father, your father will kill me. If your father kills me, Aunt Polly will kill your father. We don’t want any of that.”

Bonnie shakes his head, his eyes trapped in Michael’s like a rabbit in a snare.

Michael picks up Bonnie’s hand in his own and slowly moves it over his trousers. Bonnie’s eyes drop down and for a brief second Michael wonders, in a detached sort of way, whether he’s going to get a fist in his face instead, but then Bonnie fumbles with his trousers and then Bonnie’s wonderfully hot, firm hand is pressed against him and Michael feels his eyes roll up.

“Shit.”

He can hear Bonnie’s breath harsh and steady against the pillow as Bonnie’s hands wrap around his cock and tug on it gently. Michael lets out a gentle whine and then says, while he still has the power of speech. “I’m not touching yours.”

He doesn’t want to explain, not here, not now, not when things feel good for the first time in several months, why he never in his life wants to put his hand on another man’s cock. But Bonnie, wonderful Bonnie, seems to understand on some level and he gets a gentle huff of breath against his neck.

“Course not.”

How could he ever have thought Bonnie was crass, dirty and annoying? Bonnie is an angel.

The hand speeds up, and every ache in his body is now a good ache. Michael presses his own hand against Bonnie’s face, a silent apology for not touching him anywhere else, and pushes their foreheads together. Bonnie’s eyes are half closed, his mouth gently opened. Michael can see his tongue and suddenly he impulsively dips his head down to catch that tongue for himself. He sucks Bonnie’s tongue into his mouth and gets a surprised and eager noise in return, and the hand on his cock moves even faster.

It’s a lot quicker than it ever was with Charlotte. Probably, he thinks, because Charlotte used to pose and pout, trying to mimic a Femme Fatale she’d read about in a magazine. Charlotte would say things she thought were dirty, that came out horribly tame, or prattle about how daring and filthy she felt, while Michael tipped his head back, stared at the ceiling, and wondered whether Tommy Shelby also felt this bored with hand-jobs.

Bonnie doesn’t bother with any of that, instead his hand just works away, firm and sure, deep strokes one after the other while his lips press plush and hot against Michael's. Michael wraps one leg around Bonnie’s body, digging his heel gently into Bonnie’s backside, and then a little less gently when he hears the noise that comes out of Bonnie’s mouth. Then Michael’s eyes are closed, and the kiss breaks away so that Michael can gasp, yelp, bite his lip, and cum all in a rush over Bonnie’s hand.

He pants softly, opening his eyes as he hears Bonnie’s breath speed up. He props himself up on one arm to watch Bonnie wank himself off, limbs curled up on the bunk, his lips wet from Michael’s mouth, his vest half off one shoulder. He looks beautiful.

“Cigarette.” Is all he says, as soon as Bonnie’s finished. Bonnie stops for maybe half a second after orgasm before he’s all go again, wrapping up the stained colourful blanket and fishing out another from somewhere inside the wagon’s interior, pulling up Michael’s trousers and then sticking a cigarette between Michael’s lips.

“Light it.” Michael mumbles, feeling relaxed and stupidly pleased as Bonnie does, and catching an answering grin when he realises that Bonnie feels equally as pleased to be obeying him.

“Stay here?” He suggests, and Bonnie tugs himself back onto the bunk, throwing the new blanket over both of them and curling up to sleep.

**Author's Note:**

> I've used the word 'gypsy' as little as possible, but I have used it in the dialogue because that's how Aberama Gold refers to himself. Please be aware that it is a word with many connotations, and can be both seen and used as an insult. If you are not a member of the Romani or travelling community I would suggest you don't use it outside of period fanfiction.


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